Mr. Lee is suddenly swallowed up in the gloom of that shaded bower under the trellis-work, though a radiance as of mid-day is shining through his heart.
But soon he has to go. Mrs. Wilton is on the veranda, urging them to come in out of the chill night air. Those papers on his desk must be completed and filed this very night. He told her this.
"To-morrow, early, I will be here," he murmurs. "And now, good-night, my own."
But she does not seek to draw her hand away. Slowly he moves back into the bright moonbeams and she follows part way. One quick glance she gives as her hand is released and he raises his forage cap. It is such a disadvantage to have but one arm at such a time! She sees that Mrs. Wilton is at the other end of the veranda.
"Good-night," she whispers. "I—know you must go."
"I must. There is so much to be done."
"I—thought"—another quick glance at the piazza—"that a soldier, on leaving, should—salute his commanding officer?"
And Romney Lee is again in shadow and—in sunshine.